30 Shades of Purple
by OuyangDan
Summary: This is a 30 Day Drabble meme from Tumblr. The title "30 Days of Clint" just wasn't doing it for me. I blame Miri for the title, but I swear the resemblance to any NYT bestsellers ends there. This will be based loosely on the MCU, Avengers: EMH, a dash of comics, Dossiers and Snapshots universe, and Cracksmash RP headcanon. Apologies to canon purists.
1. Beginning

[Beginnings — Chicago]

His head lies in her lap. Looking up and blinking against the light, she is haloed — gold everywhere. No one can tell him that it is just standard blonde. She talks to him in that slight twang that always tinges her words, and instead of arguing with her account, he turns to her stomach to defend himself. She says that whatever is in there can hear him, so it only seems fair to tell his side of the stories.

There are a lot of stories. He doesn't always come out the best. Sometimes that's fair. Sometimes it's not.

This is his second chance, their second chance, a new beginning. He's not going to screw it up this time by being _him_ or letting her be _her_. They are going to make it work if it kills them. Her words, not his, but he likes the sound of them. That's what love means — and he's an expert. He's fallen in love again and again but this time.

_This_ time.

It's for real.

Now he's going to have it all. He's not going to ruin it by looking to the bottom of a bottle. He's not going to raise his hands when he's angry, and he's not going to walk away. Again.

The past is behind them, and there is nothing but this and now and day by day. He's always adored her enthusiasm. It feeds his own.

She brushes her fingers through his hair and he closes his eyes and just drinks up the way it makes his scalp tingle, the scent of orange blossoms, and the soft sounds of the rain on the windows.

_When did it start raining?_

Beams of bright light were streaming in through the curtains that Bobbi had to have — no such thing as manly curtains, so he had let that one go. Now the rain pelts the panes and it makes him open his eyes. The rain runs red down the glass and … _rain isn't red_.

Propping up to his elbows, he blinks at the the window, then looks up to Bobbi.

The red smears into a bloody handprint across the glass, dripping from the fingertips.

"What's wrong, sport?" She tilts her head, her smile turning up on her face. It's wide and beautiful and always shows all of her teeth. The smile widens until her lips pull away from her teeth, and the flesh rots backward across her sallow cheeks. Crimson rivulets fall from her eyes, her nose, her ears.

He moves a hand to her face, but it's slick and red before he even reaches for her.

"No. No, birdy. Birdy, don't go again." Her hair falls out in clumps where he touches it, and her head lolls backward.

"Don't worry, sport. It's going to be all right."

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her to him. She crumbles under his embrace until there is nothing but ash over him, around him, invading his nose and mouth and mingling with his tears. He chokes and coughs and tries to hold tight to the nothing that is already there.

"No!" He can barely move. It feels like something is pinning him in place. He writhes about, straining to pull free.

He swings his legs around, falls, hitting the floor hard.

When he pushes up onto his forearms and lifts his face from the rug, it's dark. So dark that it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, for him to realize where he is.

It's raining. Hard and pelting the window. Flickers of lightning illuminate the room in brief flashes. The sound of the storm drowns out the hammering of his heart.

A soft knock sounds before the door opens. Natasha is still tying her robe when she leans one hip against the frame.

"You all right? Sounded like there was a fight in here." The side of her mouth turns up slightly, slight sympathy in her eyes. Natasha doesn't wait to be invited in. Crossing to the bed she sits lightly down on it and leans back against the pillows.

Clint tries to hide his embarrassment in the dark. He winds the purple sheet around himself, shaking off the last bits of his dream and climbing back onto the bed.

"No. No fighting. Storm woke me." He tries to brush if off casually with a wave of his hand.

"I like the storms."

"I know." He's still staring out the window, waiting for his heart to slow down. Wiping a hand through his sweaty hair, he reclines against the headboard next to her. "Me too."

"Third storm this week." She's not talking about the weather, and he knows it.

"Comes and goes, I suppose."

She ruffles his hair and he leans his head on her shoulder, sighing deeply. He closes his eyes and just enjoys her fingers in his hair. It soothes him back to resting.

"I don't really like the rain, Tasha," he murmurs, drifting off again.

"I know. But sometimes it does rain. Eventually you learn to carry an umbrella."

She lets the quiet settle, not moving while his breathing evens out.


	2. Accusation

[Wait — Earshot]

"You're stupid."

Clint knows it's not true, but it still stings. Enough that he lowers his bow and looks away. It's his own fault that Barney says this. He could have tried the books and tests and gotten his fancy GED like his big brother, but he has talent. He's _going places, kid_ and that takes time. He doesn't answer, shaking off the scowl from his face and lining up the shot again.

"He's _using_ you, Clint. Can't you see that?" Barney crosses his arms and kicks a bit of sawdust with the toe of his sneaker. "You're better than this."

"No. No I'm not. I _am_ this. I am this and I'm going to be the _best_. You just watch. I'm going to be the world's greatest marksman."

Barney snorts.

Clint can't figure out where this is coming from. As far as he knows, Barney feels the same way about Jacques that he does. The man didn't have to be good to them, didn't have to offer to let them stop shoveling shit, but he did. A guy can only spend so much time scraping elephant dung off the ground before he starts to question his life choices. Maybe that was good enough for _big brother_. It's not enough for Clint Barton, apprentice to Trick Shot _and_ The Swordsman.

"The best freak in the sideshow." Barney shakes his head, kicking the sawdust a bit harder in Clint's general direction. "Go ahead and waste your life."

Clint lets the arrow fly and he misses the target altogether, wincing when Barney snorts again. He swears under his breath and turns to glare at Barney. "You're just jealous."

"Right. Of what, little brother? Spangly costumes and any gimmick that gets you applause. That's all you are. Go be a clown. I've got a life to lead, and I'm going to do something with it." He stops, almost softens for a moment. "Come with me. We're family. Not that you care about that."

Clint grits his teeth as he walks to retrieve the arrow from across the yard. "Piss off, Barney." He says it with less conviction than he feels.

It sounds hollow even as he thinks it.

It itches. It itches and he can't reach it.

He's at the worst angle. Can't even see the television through his stupid legs, they have them raised so high.

When did the high wire seem like a good idea? Moving hurts but his body burns to move. He has a desperate need to … nope never mind. They took care of that, apparently. That itches too. Not like he can reach to scratch it, the way they have him trussed up.

Frustratedly, he beats his head against the pillow that feels like it might be filled with sawdust. The antiseptic lighting from the fluorescent bulbs gives the tiles and cheap wallpaper a faded lavender hue. Maybe that's the pain medication. Closing his eyes for few minutes, he finally gets to sleep after what feels like days.

"You're stupid," the mocking voice pulls him from the light doze. "I knew something like this would happen. I can't even turn my back."

"Funny. That's how it felt from my end," Clint spits. He can't really turn away, but he sure can make sure that his head isn't facing Barney now.

"You ungrateful little _jerk_." Barney kicks the chair next to the bed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "You had _everything_, and that still wasn't good enough."

"Everything? Barney what are you talking about? Jacques was _stealing_."

He snorts. He's gotten good at it. "They were ripping him off. They got what they deserved."

Clint's mouth drops open. For a few heartbeats he's speechless. He runs his hands through his hair and laughs without any trace of humor. "What about me? Did I deserve this?"

Barney clenches his fists tightly. "We owed him better than that, Clint."

"You think I owe him for this?" He jerks his head at his legs, his pelvis, all of his lower body up in traction.

"You could be dead."

"He left me as good as."

Barney stares at him for a time, and it only then occurs to Clint how vulnerable he is. He turns on his heel and walks towards the door. "Good-bye, little brother."

"Barney, don't … don't go," he nearly pleads. "We're family."

Barney shakes his head. "No. We were. But you don't know anything about that."

He leaves, his footsteps fading down the hall. Clint tilts his head back, counting the bumps on the ceiling tiles and listening to the faint hum of the fluorescent lights.

"You're right. I don't.


	3. Restless

[Monster Hospital — Metric]

He watched them build the containment unit. The _supposedly_ unbreakable glass that _allegedly_ could contain _potentially_ the most powerful being on the planet. They'd be able to watch him. Worse though — because he's never liked the idea of confinement — the captive can see out.

This has to be similar. He struggles inside. He fights to break free. He's heard the stories of what it's like to have your memories messed with. He's listened to the tales of being unmade and reprogrammed to do things you never would otherwise. Those stories chill him to his core.

He knows who he is — the memories are all there — but he can't exert it himself. Every genuine thought is a strained effort. Through the visions and the glories of the Tesseract, he can see what is to come. It's a path laid before him and there is only walking and that walking can only happen forward. He's powerless to stop it.

That isn't the worst part.

The Asgardian — _boss_, he calls him, sometimes _si_r — calls him over. He makes fluid motions and beckons with a long, thin, finger. He speaks with a velvet voice and a tone of concern. The part of Clint that is leading him around seeks this mans approval. He yearns to have his respect.

_Don't listen, don't answer, shoot him, walk away_. "Yes, sir." _Anything but that_.

"Walk with me, Agent Barton." Loki speaks low, gesturing ahead of them. He does. Unquestioningly, he strides alongside the alien man. Stop, run, don't go, don't talke. Clint drifts along, because despite his own screaming inside his head, his body and the rest of his mind comply — he wants to comply. He wants to be lead and told what to do.

Smiles are funny things. They don't always imply happiness, or even anything exactly pleasant. When Loki smiles at him, it isn't joy. It penetrates through his defenses and makes him shudder inside. Malevolence — but not quite. Mischief — that's it. Mischief. There's a smugness to it that makes his own temper wave flags, but instead Clint gives a smile of his own. "I want to know about this team of yours. Everything you know."

What is there to say? The Initiative was shut down. The Council didn't believe it was a priority. Over the last year their highly trained SHIELD bottoms had been relegated to nanny duty on grownups who didn't always act like grownups. People who possibly shouldn't or couldn't be trusted with the power they wielded — but what kind of a judge was he? Just an orphan from Iowa who was too stupid to run away from the circus.

It didn't stop with people, either. How long had he been babysitting the cube? Long enough to know what it did before anyone else did with all their _science_ and _tests_. Not bad for a boy from Waverly. Not bad for a carny. Some of the observations happen at his level. A lot of it above. There are things going on that he's sure Tasha doesn't know.

He tells him most of this, swearing and screaming and railing against it in his own mind. He knows he shouldn't. That information is classified under layers and layers of security and protocol. The part of him that fights it loses to the rest of him — the part that Loki has reached his fingers into and scrambled around until even what's right and wrong doesn't matter. There's the arrogant billionaire with more money than sense. There is the scientist who Clint knows is possibly the smartest man alive but all Fury wants him for is his party tricks. There's been projects under heavy guard since that _other_ Asgardian dropped out of the sky — literally. This gains another knowing smile from the boss and try as he might, Clint can't help but feel a bit of pride at pleasing this man — _no not a man_. He doesn't know what he is.

He knows all the ins and outs of the helicarrier, having traveled every foot of it one way or another. He knows the facility that just blew up like the backs of his own hands. The patrols and shifts of people and more passwords and codes than he should. He knows Coulson and Fury and Hill and …

And Tasha.

This gets another raised eyebrow. Also that smile again. That look that makes him want to risk his own life to wring that neck even though he can't lift a finger to his own defense.

"I did say everything, Agent Barton. Do tell me more."

_No. Don't. Stop talking_ — his brain beats against the glass wall of his common sense.

"Well, boss, it started a long time ago. You see, Sir, I was sent to kill her…


	4. Snowflake

[Rotten Apples — The Smashing Pumpkins]

Bobbi's favorite time of year is the first snowfall.

She says she can _smell_ it. Something on the breeze — _a bit like spearmint_, she tells him — makes her race to the window and throw it open. Not even the smell of piss and pennies and the sounds of congested traffic below can sway her enthusiasm. Bobbi leans her head out the window, eyes closed and face tilted towards the sky. The clouds and smog strangle the starlight, but cast a faint purple shadow on her.

"It's freezing, birdy." He rubs his hands briskly up and down his arms, teeth chattering. "I think I saw penguins march through here."

"Snow. I can smell it, sport. Flakes and flurries and drifts. We have to go out. Take me out for the snow so we can come in and have a hot toddy."

He gives her an indulgent smile, sandy hair a little longer than he normally wears it falling into his bright eyes when he tilts his head. "You can't smell snow. And what's in a hot toddy anyhow?"

Laughing — god it's a beautiful sound — she shrugs. "_You_ can't," she informs him in that slight twang of hers. "I can and it's magical."

"That's not magic. It's called frostbite." He walks over and places both hands on the window sill, but she shakes her head back and forth, strands of sunshine falling from the messy bun of her hair.

"No, look!"

The flakes are large, floating delicately, illuminated by the streetlamp just over their window. Slow at first, they remind him of dandelion seeds on a summer breeze. He's a summer guy. Rooftop BBQ and beers on the fire escape, and brats for everyone. Can't do that in the snow. The flakes fall faster and fuller after a few moments, and land on the ends of her eyelashes. Her beautiful smile makes his heart ache. He's sure he's never loved anyone this much, and he's an expert.

"Let me get my coat." He shoves his bare feet into unlaced boots and pulls his heavy leather coat over his sleeveless shirt and pyjama pants. "I wanna go for a walk." He grins at her, and she pulls her head in from outside, flakes clinging to her hair and lashes and melting into beads of water.

It's been days since Bobbi's taken his calls. She won't even fight with him anymore, and he doesn't know what to make of that. Maybe Coulson was right. Too hot too fast. Fuse on an explosive. It's been cold for weeks, overcast and cloudy. The dry kind of cold that gets down in the bones when the wind blows.

Clint pulls his collar up as he hops up the steps to their — _no_, it's his apartment now. He jiggles the keys in the door with bare hands, whipped raw in the bitter wind, and drops them on the top step. Swearing, he crouches down to pick them up and whacks his head on the railing, causing a second string of profanities.

"Clinton Francis Barton?"

He winces. No one uses his full name. Not since they were kids and he had Barney's head in the toilet.

Standing, a confused look on his face, he nods slowly to the young man with the cheap tie in front of him. The kid has one of those hats with the flaps that go over his ears and he looks nervous. No, not nervous, he looks like he might piss himself right there on the sidewalk. At least he'd be warm for a while.

"You all right, kid? Ain't gonna bite you." He gestures for the kid to get closer with an inward wave of his fingers. "I don't hire the interns, just so you—"

"No, no, Mr. Barton. That's not … here." The kid — doesn't even look like he shaves yet — shoves the thick manilla envelope at Clint, then backs up quickly. "You— you've been served, Mr. Barton. I'm— I'm sorry."

He turns and dashes in shoes that aren't meant for running.

Clint stares blankly at the envelope in his hands. The weight of it pulls his heart. If he doesn't open it, he can pretend that what he knows is inside isn't real. He can live in denial that everything is going to be all right. With a deep breath, he slides a finger under the flap and tears it open.

His teeth clench as he tries to read all the big fancy legal words that essentially mean Bobbi's made up her mind. He doesn't need a law school education to know what it all means. Exhaling through his nose with shaky breath, he sends a plume of fog into the air. Tilting his head back to watch it dissipate, he sees the flakes fall slowly.

Closing his eyes, he lets the first fluffy fall of the year melt onto his face, mingling with tears he tries to hold back.


	5. Haze

[School's Out — Alice Cooper]

Coulson thinks he's hilarious.

Really.

Clint is pretty sure the man was born here on the helicarrier. Shot from the womb in that suit and tie. Probably had that earpiece in too. Bet his mother was happy about that.

Coulson seems like the one with the stick up his ass, but there's a wise guy deep inside him. Taking the screws out of the bottom of Clint's chair was juvenile. Really — he should know. It's also amateur, and Clint notices the chair sits crooked before he's all the way through the door. He sits on the desk, not touching the chair, and types his password into the computer while sitting cross-legged with the keyboard on his lap.

Or, he would have, except that Coulson's also rigged the computer to type out "I need to set my password" every time he types the letter "I". _Cute_. _Noted_. Clint's been with SHIELD for less than a week, but he already knows where everything is and who goes where and when. Heating ducts go everywhere, and everywhere is where Clint goes. He's learned more the first week than he bets half these yahoos have learned in the years they've been here.

Seriously, Hill's password isn't as clever as she thinks it is.

It's still early. Hawks spring from the nest when the first light hits and likes to be at his station before anyone else arrives. Besides, at least now he knows Coulson doesn't sleep at his desk. Hill, on the other hand, just might. He stands on the desk and every last bit of his six foot four inches stretch up to pull the grate from above his desk. Sliding it to the side, he pulls himself up, quietly, into the ductwork. He knows where to put his feet so he doesn't make sound as he climbs slowly down the duct to the next office. The grate comes off easily. He can twist the screws with his fingers and manages to slide it noiselessly aside before lowering himself to the desk.

The pile of birdseed on the desk is new. And Clint has to give him points for creativity. The subdued yellow post-it next to it simply reads "Caw Caw". He can't even get mad. But he can get even.

Clint picks up the keyboard and types. It's going to be some iteration of Captain America if the posters on the wall are any indication. The guy probably sleeps in Captain America pyjama pants. He gets it right on the third try — special characters and all — and immediately screencaps the desktop. After setting the programming — something he picked up over the years — to duplicate a window every time Coulson tries to X out, he sets the screencap to be the screensaver, then goes back the way he came in.

It's on, now.

The kid is new. It's his first day in Stark Tower, and he's managed to wear pants that don't look too wrinkled. Clint makes a note to never borrow hair product from the kid because _wow_. That hair defies logic. This was the first thing and maybe the only thing he's ever collaborated with Tony on. Having an intern sounded like fun.

Clint doesn't approach the new intern right away. He watches him from a distance for a couple of days, when he comes and when he leaves and makes mental notes of his mannerisms. He waits until Parker gets his key card and knows how to run the coffee maker. Kid makes a good cup of coffee. Clint barks at him anyhow, with a hint of jocularity and a good-natured smirk that the intern hasn't had time to learn to read yet. He sends him for cream and sugar, even though he takes his coffee black, and even though Tasha gives him that _look_ that says he's going to hear about this later at home.

It's totally worth it, though.

The kid's creative, and finds a way to talk the other people on Stark's staff out of their sugar packets. When he produces a handful with an overly-wordy explanation of how he wound up with them, Clint doesn't have the heart to not use them. A little sugar is good for the brain, so with a shrug he dumps a couple in.

It really is a good cup of coffee.

The tasks he sends Parker on make Coulson look like an amateur, and if Parker's going to cut it around here, Clint will come in one day and find signs that the kid is playing the game. He actually produces a gas hammer — Clint had to look that one up, he'd thought they were fake, like a key to the Midway.

He also sends him to fetch one of those. It takes him a little longer before he gives up.

"You're going to do all right around here, sport." Clint's been keeping track of how many things other than his name he can call him. Junior, skippy, sport, tiger, kid … they just pop into his head. "Just keep the coffee fresh. And don't worry about the Midway key."

"Yes, sir, Agent Barton, sir. Thank you. Sir. Is there anything else you need? I don't want to run out early but I promised my Aunt Mae that—"

Clint holds up two hands. "Whoa, whoa. No problem, Junior." He darkens for a moment in memory. "Family's important. Take care of home first." Gives him a wink and sends him on his way.

The next morning there's a pile of birdseed on Clint's workbench. The post-it is stuck to the wall with webbing, and reads only "Caw Caw"


	6. Flame

[Tear You Apart — She Wants Revenge]

Red, red everywhere, like he sees in his dreams. In his wakefulness too.

He's not stupid. Despite his distinct lack of days sitting in a desk in a school, he's picked things up along the way through life. He knows that everything about her was carefully created, crafted, molded and shaped to make him feel the things he does about her. Deep down he thinks it's just a crush, just a feeling of lust that warms his belly _as well as other places_ and he can ignore it well enough.

The sound of her breathing beside him is the only sound.

_No. None of that's true._ Maybe other people believe it. Maybe sometimes _he_ believes it. Maybe they both just want the others to believe it. Matt never did. He's not sure if Bobbi knew. She was never the jealous one.

It's not the _same_. It's not the glory of a golden cloud haloing sunshine. It's not what _they_ had — he doesn't want it to be. In a way, it's better. It's built upon trust and understandings and mutual benefit. Oaths sworn in bleak conditions and at most desperate times. Reassurances whispered and a refusal to coddle but a willingness to comfort, a willingness to be what the other needs when they need it. He might be in deeper than he admits and she may know it. He'd bet that she knows it. Even if it's never requited or the same or returned, it's enough for him.

It's what he needs, always.

_Sweet summer soldier_, she calls him. He wasn't always sure what she meant by that, but ever since that June day in Georgia, he thinks he understands better, now. _They were always supposed to be safe in the summer_, and maybe that's how she sees him.

There's a part of him that hopes she does.

Still sweating, he watches her sleep for a time before curling around her again, fingers in her hair and listening to the rain on the window.

Red, red everywhere, like he sees in his dreams.


	7. Formal

[Slide — The Goo Goo Dolls]

Jac Falsworth is his kind of people.

She dolls up to the nines and makes all the appropriate reactions when he slides out of the limo in his white — yes it had to be white with the purple cummerbund — tuxedo. Tails and hat and cane and all. Tasha tells him the cane is over the top, but really, it's Big Top or nothing as far as he's concerned. She's so tiny he could carry her around in his pocket. Not like Jan, whom he is _literally_ carrying in his pocket right at this moment, but _petite_ is definitely a word that describes her. He knows better than to mistake small as not being able to dish out some pain when needed. He's got fresh bruises between his shoulders that tell him otherwise.

He lays on the charm thick, too thick to be taken seriously and he likes that she gets that. They don't so much walk into the party as they _own_ the room, commanding every head to turn their way. Trays of champagne float by. It's the good stuff, pricey by the smell of it, but they're on the job so the two crystal flutes he pluck are for show only.

"I'm not really a champagne guy, to be honest," he lies. He isn't even sure why he lies, but he hears a snort in the earpiece — it's really an altered hearing aide that Stark has designed for him. Tasha is working surveillance instead of the party with him and is their lifeline.

He and Jac work the room well, but they aren't the team that he and Tasha are. When Jac wants to distract the guards, he has to react quickly — and pulls off one of his better performances were anyone to ask. He would already know what Tasha was going to do and have the next three steps planned out. They communicate without speaking, without really having to think about it. He mops the spilled champagne off of the guard with the silk handkerchief, letting Jan flit out of his pocket. Jac falls against the guard, holding herself up with one arm and adjusting the slingback of her shoe.

Yeah. He knows shoes.

Jac moves lightly and gracefully across the floor. He keeps her close so they can talk about the things she smells. She doesn't explain that, he doesn't really ask. If he wanted to know, he'd find out.

She's a divine dancer and he loves dancing. Crashing parties undercover is an especially favorite job of his, but usually it's because he gets to put on the flashiest thing he owns and Tasha does her hair up off the lines of her neck, and puts on something that makes every eye follow her.

Yeah. So maybe he's still a bit competitive.

They've pretended to drink their third glass of champagne each.

"So, you and Natasha?" He's caught off guard by this and nearly steps on her foot. He's not entirely sure why. Most of the others don't pry, though he hears them talking when they think he's not around or when they are reviewing the surveillance footage.

"Me and Tasha?" he repeats back, stalling. "You mean, partners? Yeah. For a while now." He grins, counting on it being disarming enough to get the subject changed.

"Of course." She smiles back. He knows the look of placation when he sees it. She's not buying it. If he were honest, he would admit that no one really believes that. It's really something he's learned to say out of habit. It really doesn't matter if they believe it or not. Some things don't need to be defined.

Natasha says something snarky about having his bow waiting when they reach the roof into his earpiece, and it makes him chuckle. Extending his arm outward he spins Jac around and pulls her back in. Their mark is on the move. It's time to go


	8. Companion

[First of Me — Hoobastank]

He takes great pains to convince people otherwise. He likes to be the social butterfly at the Tower. Clint comes up with great party games on movie nights. Coffee houses with Tasha, or sitting on the counter in the kitchen at Tony's, he can be a chatterbox. The sound of Tasha's breathing during a storm is comforting, and it's come to be something he counts on.

Really, he's a loner. He likes crouching into high places, watching from above. The ventilation ducts around the Tower are a favorite haunt. He can be around all of the rest of the team and still keep his solitude. He's used to that alone feeling — you see enough backs in your life you start to take it personal. Eventually it makes more sense to keep to yourself.

He craved the recognition and applause and the validation of his skills as an orphan. He grew to love the relationship of him and his bow, just the two of them facing the target. Facing the perfect shot from five hundred paces and hearing the roar of applause and the warmth of the lights.

A bow doesn't argue. It doesn't threaten you when you're too close to it. Doesn't drink when it's angry because you're hungry for dinner. A bow doesn't _get angry_. It doesn't walk out because it stops loving you. It's not going to send someone to serve you papers. While it's not easy to replace, no one expects you to show up in a suit and put on a tough face or make small talk.

He looks down the sight of his bow, fingers curled around the riser. Testing the tension on the string, he puts it down and re-winds it. He's been working on this one since they arrived here on what is proving to be a long assignment. He's put all of his free time into it, hoping the job doesn't go south before it — no, she — is finished.

He jerks his arm, the ends snapping in. A satisfied grin spreads across his face. _Move one finger just slightly_, and the bow is full sized again with a distinct _click_.

"Babushka," he says with a half grin.

"What?" Natasha is checking her bracelets and reloading her magazines, pausing to turn her head towards him. "What is that, the only Russian word you know?"

"No," he says, tilting his head as if he's insulted, his face twisting up. "That's her name."

"You're kidding."

"I never kid."

"Yes, that is your reputation." Her eyes slide to the side as she looks at him.

He shrugs. "I thought you'd like it." He holds up the bow, cradling it in the crook of one arm. "She doesn't understand us."

Natasha shakes her head slowly back and forth and goes back to her work.


	9. Move

[Dare You To Move — Switchfoot]

_Time doesn't slow down because you are sad, and it cares even less that sad is a completely inadequate way to describe things. Time turns, wheels move on. It is an arrow released, which is something that can never come back. Even if you cross to the target and retrieved the arrow, it isn't a reset. It is merely a point from which to go forward._

There is still red dirt in the bottoms of his dress shoes. They go out with the trash the day he comes home from Georgia. The suit, too. Usually he isn't so wasteful, but there is no use in holding onto it any longer. Sober again and more clear of mind after the silent plane ride with Natasha, it isn't hard to do what he has to do. He has to go on.

The cans and bottles and socks go first. Food that has overstayed its welcome in the fridge follow. Once the stove and the floors and the bathtub are all scrubbed clean, he sits on the edge of the tub and looks at all the bottles and containers and tubes of lipstick. Shampoo and bath salts and the stuff that smells of orange flowers nearly overflow from the few shelves and little wicker basket she puts on the back of the toilet. With a deep breath, he gets up, dumping it all into a garbage sack with a sweep of his arm.

The bedsheets go next. They have little purple flowers on them — that had been a compromise — and he can't stand to look at them any longer. Off they come and into the bag they go. He'll make do without them until he can get something new. Then the pillows because they still smell … all of her clothes have to go, too. He should probably donate them, but he needs them out of the apartment.

The pilsners they got at a pub right after they married shatter against one another when he drops them into yet another bag. The margarita glasses they used at the last fourth of July barbecue after they started dating go next, then the barbecue tongs and scraper. His purple "Kiss the Cook" apron. The tie she had to get him when she accidentally hit him in the nose on the way to a job, to replace the one he bled on. All in the bag.

It's raining when he goes down to the dumpster. It's fitting, in a way, because it was raining that day too and it rains in his dreams. He leans for just a few moments, hands on the edge of the dumpster, the smell of diapers and spoiled lettuce invading his nose. It's more welcomed than the orange blossoms. Pushing off the container, he climbs back up the stairs to his clean — clean of every trace that she's ever been there, and yet somehow the sunshine that was her still permeates.

The sky is red behind the clouds, and the rain is unusually cool for this time of year when he carries his duffel up the front steps. _They were supposed to be safe in the summer_. The doorman recognizes him and lets him in right away. It's only been a few hours, but the hole feels raw as if it's grown over days.

"Thought you'd show up," Tasha says quietly when she opens the door. She hasn't even changed yet. It's both refreshing and stabs him at the same time.

"I'm hungry, and it's raining." He leans one elbow on the door and gives her his usual smile that feels odd on his face. It's time to smile.

Tasha smiles back. She takes his bag without further comment, walking lightly on her toes and setting it next to the sofa. There's already a sheet and blanket waiting, neatly folded on the arm. "I'll make some tea. The takeout menus are in the drawer." Pointing, she gets the kettle and sets it to boil.

"Thanks, Tasha." He doesn't have to say why. She knows.

"We're not getting the peppered beef," she answers over her shoulder.

He smiles, pulling his cell from his pocket


	10. Silver

[Seven Deadly Sins — Flogging Molly]

"So then we're surrounded by sharks, right?" Clint's voice has taken on that volume of someone who's had a bit too much to drink to realise no one wants to hear his stories. There is a half-dollar coin which he flips over his knuckles, back and forth, in-between his fingers.

"Oh, god. Here we go." Natasha sips her wine and rolls her eyes, giving Bobbi a look that she seems to understand. "I am so sorry," she says a bit conspiratorially to her. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

Bobbi giggles while she tries to both bounce her quarter into one of the shot glasses and drink her margarita at the same time. To comical effect, she misses and spills some of her drink into her lap. "I'm not worried. Once we get home, he won't be so chatty."

"You," he points to Natasha, waving a finger a little too close to her nose, "brought up the crash."

"Yes, yes I did," she answers dryly. "I should choose my stories more carefully and remember my audience."

"It's all about the audience!" Flipping the coin a few more times across the backs of his fingers, he tosses the coin casually, bouncing it off the table and into the glass in front of him. "Ha! I told you two not to play quarters with the World's Greatest Marksman! Anyhow, the shark."

Natasha and Bobbi both take a glass and empty them. Bobbi laughs again — the sound is just like music to him, even as it's nearly strangled out by the thumping of the speakers and the din of the other patrons and pool cues breaking sets on felt. He doesn't drink the hard stuff often, but they're celebrating — even if he can no longer remember what it was they were celebrating — and he makes an exception just now.

"Yes, yes, you punched the shark and the rest of them gasped and swam away." Natasha's tone is droll and indulgent, but there is still a hint of amusement in her slow smirk. Clint can be a force when he's worked up, and he knows that she knows after years to pick her battles concerning his bravado.

"Yeah they did." He waves a hand for another round of tequila and continues. In the same motion he waves his arms back and forth, mimicking fins. "And then all of those assholes swam away."

Bobbi wraps both of her arms around one of his and hugs tightly to him. "Of course they did, sport." She plants a bit sloppy kiss on his cheek and rests her head on his shoulder.

He presses his lips to the top of her head. "See you get me, birdy." For a moment he's glowing, happier than he can remember. "You know, it doesn't get better than this. A great night with my two favorite ladies. Hey! Where's the camera?"

"Oh, no." Bobbi shakes her head.

"No, no. This is the best night ever!" He leaves out the thought "since our wedding" because he doesn't want to remind anyone of the divorce and the rest of the mess since then. "I want to remember it forever!"

Natasha produces the disposable, and he insists that he's the world's best photographer, because you _shoot_ pictures. After fumbling a few minutes trying to get all three of them, he hops up with none of his archer's grace.

"Slide together, you two!" he waves his hand back and forth until they comply. "The two most wonderful ladies to every find themselves unable to resist Clint Barton!" He stumbles as he snaps the picture, and calls it good enough, plopping back down between them, nearly landing on Natasha's lap. "Best night ever," he repeats, picking the coin back up and spinning it through his fingers.


	11. Prepare

[All the Right Moves — One Republic]

An archer knows.

He knows that each shot counts. He knows that he has a limited number of chances to hit what needs to be hit — at least the good ones do.

The World's Greatest Marksman is no slouch either. Clint takes great pains to make sure he has quivers and spares filled with a variety. It's not always easy to predict what is going to be needed when out on a job. Things that explode, things that smoke and obscure, and things that just do the good ol' fashioned job of sticking in people.

He carries coins in his pockets and a deck of cards whenever he travels, because in a pinch anything can be a weapon in his hands. He has passports and ID's with a variety of aliases and currency (some of those coins are pretty varied) that will get him around a good number of countries at all times. Babushka can swing a wide arc in a pinch, but too many heads and he's like to crack her.

He's a regular boy scout of preparedness. Wouldn't Captain America be proud?

There is a reasonable voice in the back of his head reminds him of the harsh realities. He's no Super Soldier, never had any fancy serum. If he learned anything from Bobbi, it's that no one really lives forever, especially people who are just _ordinary_.

She chases him the last six blocks of his way to Stark Tower before he turns around and gives her a look.

"Look, kid. I don't hire the interns. You have to go through HR."

She actually rolls her eyes. "I don't want to be an intern." He has an eye for details. Designer clothes, well-groomed hair and perfectly manicured nails on calloused fingers. The way she moves, the way stands, one hip jut out to the side with her arms crossed.

She's perfect. He knows before she spouts off, smart at the mouth. "Then what do you want, kid?" he asks anyway.

"I'm not a kid." She purses her lips, dark hair framing her face in strands that have escaped from the — yes purple — sunglasses she's pushed them back with. "I'm here to see you." She pauses. "Hawkeye."

Oh, yeah. She's perfect.

He lifts an eyebrow at her anyhow. "Oh? And who are you to be dropping big names?"

Crossing her arms like she's never heard the word "no" in her life, she lifts a black eyebrow at him. "I'm Kate Bishop, and you're going to train me."

He snorts, and just for a moment, considers telling her no, just to see the reaction on her face. Instead, he jerks his head at the Tower. "Kid, you're in luck. I just started looking for a flunkie today."

He's already walking, and he can hear her shoes on the sidewalk behind him. "I'm no one's flunkie. I'm the best you're going to find." Her arrogance actually impresses him, but he keeps his face neutral.

"Not yet you're not," he tells her casually. _But you could be_.


	12. Knowledge

Unwell — Matchbox Twenty

There is a clarity in the knowledge of the Tesseract that he both resents and embraces. He hates that the part of him trapped deep within himself can't fight against it. The more surface parts of him go willingly where the knowledge leads him.

He knows the plan long before Germany. He has seen it lain out in front of him like a narrow and winding foot path along the edge of a mountain. No room to turn around, but the trail ahead looking ominous. The plan had never involved Boss coming back with them. That had been the distraction. Inside he loathes himself for the suggestion. Externally, his face curls into a cruel smile at the thought of what he knows is about to happen. Like some unspoken part of him that secretly always enjoys a kill has been set free.

He doesn't so much hear the man as _feel_ his scream. The scanner beeps as the retinal replica takes. In the ground beneath him are the familiar vibrations of the quinjet coming in. It's amazing what a person can learn to discern by feel. Even without his hearing, he knows Tasha has come after them. She would have been the first one they called.

The door pops open and he's inside before he feels the chaos come to a fold out front.

—

This is wrong, and he knows it. He's not strong enough to fight it off, not anymore. So much of his mind is entwined with the tendrils of the Tesseract. He takes the crew that he's chosen, all of them blessed with the vision and all of them at least as eager as he is. He knows every inch of the Helicarrier. At this point, it doesn't matter if he does or not. He's told Boss everything he wanted to know. The point isn't extraction — it's chaos. A performance, and if Clint Barton has ever enjoyed anything, it's a good show.

SHIELD will likely have the god restrained. The containment unit they built for Dr. Banner is the only place that Clint imagines is able to hold Loki. Still, knowing the plan, knowing the future, knowing everything that is about to happen, Clint still plans the attack. Maybe this was Boss' plan the whole time — after all, Clint is the expert at distractions. He's already proven that.

Patrols, work stations, who goes to the head and on break and when — he knows all of it. He might be SHIELD, but he's also an assassin. No one knows situational awareness like he does, and it makes his job entirely too easy — a fact that both the Clint Barton who is struggling against his bonds of his controlled mind and the Clint Barton who follows Loki with need for approval both know.

Creating chaos is a simple matter for the World's Greatest Marksman. The smoke fills the passageways before they ever see him coming. Hill is a good shot, but he's better, even with a gun. This is no gun, though. The bow in his hand is just as much his partner as Tasha has ever been, or even Bobbi. Funny he thinks of her now. He pounds on his own mind — Tasha's a friend, and he trusts her to do the right thing.

He doesn't have much choice, and glee and horror war with one another when the explosion causes shrapnel that causes the gash on Maria's face. Agents that he's known for years fall, along with newer ones whose names he hasn't learned yet.

Retreating, he winds his way through the ductwork until he drops to one of the lower units. He picks up the call in his earpiece. He's not sure if they meant for him to hear or not.

He hears Natasha respond. Inside part of him is so relieved. He can't help but seek her out. If anyone can end his struggle, give him peace and freedom from the control, she can.


	13. Denial

[Something I Can Never Have — Nine Inch Nails]

Bobbi doesn't even bother fighting with him any more.

Every now and then he deliberately picks a fight with her to see her reaction, or lack thereof. She doesn't complain about the dishes he leaves in the sink, or about him drinking from the coffee carafe. He leaves the toilet seat up, and he knows she didn't notice until too late, but she doesn't rage at him.

She stops talking into his good ear. Before she would move habitually around him, making sure her mouth was right on his ear when she spoke. Now she mumbles and walks away while she's talking, and it leaves him scrambling to catch up.

They make love. She rolls away from him after they part. He can feel her stiffen when he drapes an arm across the curve of her her waist. She moves when he buries his nose against her neck, inhaling the scent of orange blossoms and sweat mingled in the halo of her moonlight-coloured hair.

It's a phase. She'll snap out of it if he gives her space. If he gives her time.

"Mornin', Birdy."

She sits at the table while he turns the bacon. It's later than normal for her to get up, but he doesn't comment. Her eyes are locked on something he can't see outside the window. He tries to see whatever it is, but there is nothing there but the fire escape across the side street and the flapping of the thin curtains with tiny flowers.

"Hmm?" She blinks and looks at him finally. "Sorry. What were you saying, Clint?"

He doesn't let the sting show on his face. Searching his memories for any recollection of the last time she's called him anything but "sport", he just slides the eggs onto her plate.

She doesn't say thank you. She doesn't even really start eating. Using a fork, she just pushes the scrambles around on her plate.

"We should have lunch today, Birdy."

He sets the mugs of coffee down, sliding one towards her, giving her a hopeful look. "There's a new dog stand I wouldn't mind—"

"I'm having lunch with Natasha."

"Oh. Well, all right then." He taps his toast on the edge of his plate. "I'll see you tonight, then, when we get home." The breeze is a little too chilly for his taste. Standing, he gives her one more look before rounding the table to close the window.

"No, leave it open." She looks at him finally, and he thinks he sees that spark in her eye again. "I can smell it coming."

"The snow?" he asks, even though he knows.

"The snow," she repeats, then lets out a long breath. "I should get going. Busy day."

"OK, Birdy. I love you, babe."

She pauses with one arm in her trench. "I know, Sport."

As he watches her leave, he pushes his plate away. It's just a phase. If he gives her space, she'll come around. He's sure.


	14. Wind

[Wind of Change — Scorpions]

The breeze is pleasant. The cover is good. There is just enough foliage to hide them, but not so much that it blocks the target. He wishes he'd brought some food. Or some coffee. Even tea, that crappy herbal kind that Tasha drinks. The sun dapples the ground around him, further enhancing his camouflage.

It's a warm, bright, perfect, summer day. Clear skies, just right for setting up a job. Killing people in warm places is fun, at least that's what Tasha always tells him. She relaxes in the summers. They all do, it seems. Only Bobbi seems to miss the snow as soon as the thaw comes.

"I want to get this over with," he grumbles. The ear piece picks up sound flawlessly. Sometimes when the breeze picks up it makes a crackle, but as far as fancy hearing aides go, this one is the best he's owned. Tony knows what he's about.

"It'll go faster if you keep it down, Clint," Natasha tells him. She's on her fifth circuit of the jogging trail. He can see her clearly through his scope. She's easy to pick out, bright red hair bobbing in a ponytail.

"I've got it, Tasha." Bobbi's smile radiates in her voice. It's like summer sunshine, her slight twang crisp as the wind over the bay. She sets her binoculars down and slides a thermos to him. "Here, Sport. You get grumpy when you're hungry."

"Do not."

He can here Natasha snort in her comm.

He's a good multi-tasker. He can keep his eye trained and drink gazpacho at the same time. Bobbi's had a hankering for spicy food lately, and it's the perfect summer soup. "This kid is gonna make me match you pound for pound. I just know it."

She laughs quietly enough to only be heard by him, and it's like music. "Clearly takes after you, there. I've never been so hungry."

"If you two are finished." Natasha's voice isn't strained or annoyed. They've been friends for so long, they just fit, the three of them, into a comfortable rhythm. "This guy's late."

"Our info should have been good." He turns the scope from one end of the field of vision to the other. "Bobbi's people have been working on it for weeks."

The wind picks up again, and the earpiece crackles, cutting off whatever pithy remark Natasha made.

"I'm going to go do a perimeter circuit." Bobbi pushes up to her feet, gathering the gold of her hair into a ponytail. "Something's not right."

"Be careful, Birdy." He takes his eye off the scope for just a moment to watch appreciatively as she jogs away.

Everything happens so fast. The mark comes into view, looking twitchy, head moving from side to side. The wind picks up again, and Clint makes a note to have Tony check the sensitivity on the earpiece. The rustle of leaves and the approach of footsteps happen moments before the shot rings out.

"Look out." The impact causes his shot to release. The thermos knocks over. Another shot rings out and Bobbi is on top of him. The man, just out of the trees, doubles over, then falls forward. Bobbi drops her weapon. "Sport, are you all right?" Her voice is strained.

He pushes up to his elbows, trying to move her off of him. "Birdy?"

Natasha is back to them before he makes sense of what has happened. "You got him, but I heard … oh, _Bobbi_."

The red is already blossoming across her chest.

"No, no. Birdy. Birdy what happened?"

"Did I get him, Sport?" She tries to sit up. "I tried to warn you. I didn't see … him until …"

He shakes his head back and forth in disbelief.

"Clint, you have to put pressure on it." Natasha is kneeling beside him, speaking in a measured tone. "Here." She takes his hands and presses them to the wound. The red is already pooling between his fingers.

"Birdy, how could you be so stupid?" She cries out slightly when he presses down, but she is still smiling.

"It's gonna be all right, Sport. I promise."

Tasha is already calling in for an ambulance. Time has slowed to a stop, like the moment before the release of the arrow. The birds and insects have given in, silent, still. Too still. The tang of copper mixes with the rush of orange blossoms in his nose. "Birdy. You stay with me. Look at me," he growls almost angrily. "You don't get to leave me again."

Summer blue and clear, she keeps her eyes on his, though it seems like she's looking past him. "I'm not going no where, Sport. I promise. It doesn't even hurt."

She was never a good liar.

"Help is coming." Tasha's voice is steady, calm, that professional tone she is so good at. She's always been level-headed in these situations. Not that he's been in a lot of these situations. He's just a _sweet summer soldier_, she says, even though he has no idea what that means. His heart is hammering in his ears, and he can feel every breath he pulls, as if each one will make her take another.

"No. Bobbi. _Birdy_. You can't … we were going to … I _need_ you." Bobbi puts one hand over his and closes her eyes for a moment. "No. You _open your eyes_," he begs her. "Stay with me."

"Tasha," she coughs. "Take care of …" She tries to draw a breath and can't finish. Tasha merely nods. Sometimes things don't need to be said.

It's too late. He knows before her grip on his hand eases. He knows before her chest stops rising and falling. Red smears across her face when he brushes his shaking fingers through sunshine.

He chokes over a sob, covering her body with his as if he can shield her. He can hear the ambulance on the way. There was never any way they'd make it in time. "No. Birdy. I love you. Don't go, Birdy."

Natasha gets up to show the paramedics where they are as his sobs fill the silence.

_They were supposed to be safe in the summer_.


	15. Order

He throws his socks on the floor easily now.

It wasn't always that way. Once, every sock, every item, every possession, no matter how small or shabby, was carefully put in its place. After enough cupped hands to the ear, it became a rote habit. Everything had a place, as if that alone is enough to stop it.

When Tasha gripes at him about his socks being on the floor, he doesn't flinch anymore. The flinching happens when she hits the wall with a coffee mug or teacup in a fit of pique. They don't happen often, but they come, and for just a moment, he's back in Waverly.

_He's cowering in the kitchen, huddled beneath Barney's arms. Dad will come for him first. He always does. Sometimes, though, Clint's crying catches his attention, and a callused hand catches him by the arm or the shirt collar or the suspenders, and it's his turn first._

_Sometimes mother would break something on purpose. She'd make a distraction, and dad would carry her off, leaving the brother clutching one another as sleet hits the windows._

"_Don't worry. Mommy's fine."_

"_Don't let go, Barney."_

"_Never."_

He shakes his head, clearing his mind, and catches both of Natasha's wrists and pulls her into a hug. She slacks against him. He buries his nose in her hair and inhales honeysuckle, and the fight is forgotten. More than likely, it wasn't about either of them anyhow.

They're holding hands and staring blankly at the coffins. They wear their best, which means shirts with collars, even if his is a bit dingy and Barney's tie is crooked. They don't know where they are going to go. The last few days have been a confusing mix of sadness lined with a hint of relief.

His sock slides down his leg, making him fidget and twitch.

"Hold still, Clint," Barney hisses. They've heard stories that orphans get separated. If they are good, maybe, wherever they go, they'll get to stay together.

He grips Barney's hand just a little more tightly.

"Don't let them take you," Clint whispers.

"Never."

She grips his hand while he stares blankly at the coffins. There are so many to choose from, and nothing seems right, nothing seems real.

"That one," Tasha finally makes up his mind for her. He can't remember how he got here, or why he had to get out of bed. Bed with the sheets with the little purple flowers. There's rain on the windows, and it mutes the words the man is speaking to him.

"Mr. Barton? I need you to sign here." Absently he nods, then turns and walks out the door.

"I can sign for that." Natasha takes the pen and with a flick of her wrist she does what he can't and makes the arrangements to put Bobbi in the ground.

If he's quiet, maybe she won't go away, too.

He gets back to wherever she takes him — his apartment, hers, he doesn't know — and staggers through the door, pulling his socks off. He leaves them by the door, and the last thing he remembers is that he is supposed to put them away before he falls face first into the sofa, sobbing.

Tasha is brushing fingers through his hair. He catches her hand and squeezes it.

"You can't go, too."

She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to


	16. Thanks

[Stronger — Kelly Clarkson]

The headlines had been startling to Clint. His card beeps, bringing him to the hospital as fast as he can travel.

Tasha looks like she hasn't slept in days. It isn't unusual for her to be tired, but she rarely looks less than perfect. The dark circles under her eyes concern him, even if he knows deep down it's unwarranted. And possibly unwelcome. She doesn't like the fuss, not outwardly, and he needs to fuss. She gets that, on some level, he's sure.

Clint circles arms around her shoulders, she leans her head on his arm. They watch Steve in the bed in front of them. The room smells sterile. He doesn't know how this is possible, and maybe it is just because he's had his fill of hospital rooms over the years. There are tubes and lines coming out of Steve everywhere.

It's a humbling feeling, to see someone like Captain America reduced to near-mortally wounded and resting. He looks smaller, somehow.

"Go home, Tasha. Eat something," he mumbles into her hair. She gives him a _look_ that he knows means she doesn't appreciate being told what to do, but eventually sighs, squeezing his arm before ruffling his hair and leaving.

He sits beside the bed and dozes off and on.

"Clint." He looks up. Steve's trying to sit up, and he immediately jumps from the chair to adjust the pillows behind him. "Thanks for coming."

"No problem, man. Don't worry. We've got people on the case, and you'll be back in your glamour pants before you can sing the Star Spangled Banner.

Steve chuckles, then winces.

They pass the time with idle chatter, Clint finding a coin in his pocket and rolling it across the back of his knuckles before tossing it up and catching it repeatedly.

"Do me a favor, Clint?" Clint braces for some sort of man-to-man chat about preparedness and mortality. "Check on Jan? She was there and—"

"Sure thing, bro." Clint nods. Steve doesn't need to finish the sentence. Clint knows what it's like to watch someone you care about get shot. If he winces, he does his best to cover it up.

He grips Steve's arm before he gets up, giving him another nod. "You rest. I'll swing back by maybe tomorrow."

When he knocks on the very fancy door in the swanky building, it takes her long enough to answer that he wonders if she's even there. The doorman eyed him up and down as if he was some carny or vagabond, so he shuffles around awkwardly in the hall until he hears the beeping of the lock.

"Clint?" Jan looks at him, confused. The tell-tale circles are under her eyes, and he notices her hand twitch on the edge of the door.

"I bought too much food," he lies with a broad grin, holding up the noodle containers. "Thought maybe you might be able to help me not waste it."

In a way it's like looking in a mirror from a year ago. A shorter, more woman-like mirror. He remembers the detached feeling. What little he remembers, anyhow. She stares at him for a few moments before nodding, almost distantly, and backs into her apartment, gesturing for him to come in. "Of course. Come in. I … was trying to eat but …"

He looks at the pile of rabbit food on her plate. "I guarantee this is better. I know this guy who runs the little dive around the corner from mine and Tasha's place." How long has he been calling it _their_ place and not _her_ place? "You never have to order. He just knows what you need."

He shuffles around the kitchen, pulling out plates as if he owns the place, and grabs a couple of glasses for the sparkling water he picked up. Usually, the cheap-ass piss they call beer goes best with the noodles, but he has a suspicion that the last thing she needs is alcohol.

Jan pokes at her plate with the chopsticks for several minutes while he inhales half of his in silence. Finally she takes a tentative bite, then another. "You're right. This is better."

He watches her eat in silence for as long as he can stand it. She doesn't clean her plate, but she looks better when she finally sets the utensils down.

"This kind of stuff, it happens, Jan. It never gets easy." She hasn't been with them as long. He's not sure if she's used to seeing people shot, least of all Steve. "I wish I had something cheerier to tell you. But … you know. He's gonna be fine."

She nods.

"Look. I'm supposed to clean the fridge, and Tasha might make me the next mark if I bring home more food before I do. I'm going to leave the leftovers." He stands, picking up the plates and ferrying them to the sink. She has some fancy dishwasher with too many buttons, so he just washes them in the enormous sink that looks better for washing a dog than dishes. He could probably bathe in it. "You should rest. Steve was sleeping when I left. I bet he'll be up for more company later. I'll finish up here."

He packs up the food and puts them in her giant refrigerator. He'd never have to clean one that large. They would never run out of room.

She stands, the colour seeming to come back. "I think I will." She folds and unfolds her hands, then looks up at him. "Thanks."

"Aww. No problem, Ms. VanDyne. Happy to do it." He shrugs and snatches up his jacket. "Call if you need anything."

"I will," she tells him, closing the door behind him


End file.
